Some Things Last Forever
by sunshinetina
Summary: The story starts with John trying to move on after seeing Sherlock jump off St Bart's rooftop. However, Sherlock is alive and does not want to move on, following his best friend everywhere, when suddenly they meet again, by chance. My first fanfic, ever.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own any Sherlock/John/etc character from the Sherlock BBC series: I'm just a devoted fan of theirs. The quotations are from the series. This is my first fanfic ever, so... an experience for me. Any reviews are really, truly welcome & they'll make me inconceivably happy! :)**

_**~Some Things Last Forever~**_

_**Prologue**_

'_Why today?'_

'_Do you want to hear me say it?'_

'_18 months since our last appointment.'_

_18 months_… Jesus Christ, 18 bloody months since the first time I saw Sher-… Since I saw my best friend. **Since Sherlock in my life**. 18 months ago he was still… He was there, thoughtful, laying on the sofa, murmuring to me while I was buying Tesco milk, bulleting the ornamented wall around the yellow smiley face. The severed head and the thumbs were still in the fridge every time I wanted to have a supper.

'_Nothing happens to me_,' I remember saying 18 months ago to the pseudo-(and I know how pseudo she is)-psychologist in front of me. How mistaken I was! To claim that '_nothing happens to you_' is to admit your own failure in life and to seal your own fate, to commit a suicide without... without really having the urge to jump off the rooftop of St Bart's.

Here it is, again. Every bloody time when I start thinking about something, anything, I remember his wing-like arms, delineated in the greyish sky. I remember '_THE Fall_', as some pressmen record it, not as an incidence, but as a gracious flight: a last one. Even his last deduction was thoroughly made, in his typical Sherlock style: with full dedication and firmness in it. No hesitation.

I was there, just across the building when my mind, like every single time, co-operating with my heart, screamed that I am too distant from St Bart's.

'_No, stay exactly where you are!'_

That was it. That was the last point in his last '_note_'. It was not what he said: I was listening, yes, though, I was not hearing. It was the way he said it. The trembling voice, the lack of rudeness in his speech, the atrocious lies in my ears. I tried to focus my eyes on the tall black-coated figure some feet above me, standing there regally as a marble statue, but this was not Him. **This was not Sherlock**. This was not the best friend whom I knew to be the bravest, the smartest, the most unshakeable person in the world.

She is staring at me with her judging black holes, trying to make the time pass before her next patient, attempting to elicit a simple answer from me. _My mind is a mess._ I haven't slept properly since the ominous afternoon in front of (or, should I say, 'at the corner of'?) St Bart's. I haven't eaten any of Mrs Hudson's cupcakes (except, I reminisce, once, but she had salted them, instead of putting sugar, which made her snivel, whispering Sherlock's name). I've decided to walk out of 221B and go to Harry, but soon I figured out I cannot stand her most of the time. Every morning, I do the same bloody thing: pouring the English tea with sip of milk in two china cups and putting one in front of me and one for Harry. Then she comes, knits her brows, scolding me she never-ever drinks her tea like that, that she is 'not Sherlock, for heaven's sake', and that I need help, because I am too traumatised to go on like that.

When I first met Mycroft, he told me that I am not haunted by the war, but I miss it. Wandering over the streets of London by yourself you see solitude only; walking with someone else, is a pleasant conversation, most likely, a good acquaintance. _Strolling about the streets with Sherlock Holmes is an adventure: __**it is a war outside the battlefield.**_

Now, for the second time in my life, I'm being alone, missing the thing that has always given me strength and wish to go on: _the war_. The soldier-mate who dies in front of thy eyes and you are unable even to whisper his name properly.

'_There's stuff that you wanted to say...'_

Yes, there is. There are so many things that I've never even had to strength to tell him.

'_... but didn't say it.'_

'_Yeah.'_

'_Say it now.'_

'_No... Sorry, I can't.'_

**And I still don't have any strength.** There is a lump in my throat still standing there; I still cannot get rid of it, no matter how hard I try. I feel the desperate need to cry, to scream, to laugh at the same time. To giggle, like we did on every crime scene, because, I know, I _**know**_ that he is somewhere around me, looking at me with his piercing green-blue gaze, _**alive**_. I _**have**_ to believe Sherlock is alive. I truly do.

'_It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.'_

His note. **His bloody note.** I know every single syllable of it by heart and even re-re-whispering the words, spoken through his tremulous voice, makes my whole body ache. _'It's what people do, don't they?'_ They cry, Sherlock. They ache. They suffer when their relatives and friends are taken away from this world.

_**I ache.**_ I have the steady faith that you'll be (I chuckle, remembering your mocking tone) _'like a_ _fairy' _and you'll rise from this trap, called grave, that you'll walk into this room and you'll say that my therapist should be fired because she thinks my pain is a malady, not a pure psychotic despair.

'_Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain.'_

_**My lonely fairytale**_ – so lonely, that I was the one who ought to turn over the pages and read it to myself; needed a good old-fashioned protagonist. You were not the 'old-fashioned' type: you're anything, but 'old-fashioned'. From your cheekbones and your coat, through the damned yellow smiley face (forgive me, Mrs Hudson, for I've made it a sad one, bulleting it at 3a.m.), to the master-mind the world is not even close to reveal yet (and I wonder, would it ever be?).

_**I miss you, Sherlock.**_ I miss you so much, it hurts. I miss your lack of conformity sometimes. I miss your sarcasm, verging on insult. I miss your frankness. I miss your uncommonness. I miss the best and only friend that I have ever had. And I know this pain will not fade away, regardless the days, the months, the years. You were... You still _**are**_ the best gift that fate has ever given to me: just when I was so alone, just when I thought I won't make it through. _The best gift at the best moment._ These, pardon me, are things I can't say out loud: things I can't even rationally put in order in my head.

So, here I am, with a bright novelist future (yes, Sherlock, sarcasm), just the_ 'normal-looking bloke' _John Watson, former army doctor and captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Afghanistan, trying to re-arrange my thoughts, to start living a tedious solitary life. No blog, no friend, no me. Just a day-to-day survival, pseudo-psychologist, random thoughts, always and always revolving around the impeccable figure on the top of St Bart's.

I **am** so alone. And I owe _**you**_ this, now. You brought me here, Sherlock. Forgive me when I blame you for everything I am (or, rather, I am not) right now, but you ought to understand. I have to, although I'll never entirely, move on. I have to stop this war right here, right now, although I cannot live a second without it.

I'll cancel all my next appointments with the therapist: I don't need her.

I'll go to Tesco and I'll buy some cold, icy milk. I'll drain the bottle by myself.

I'll take a cab, pass the Tower of London, pass Tate, Wembley, not really knowing where to go.

I'll take a lonely walk in Hyde, I'll feed the ducklings, I'll sit alone on a bench.

I'll call Mrs Hudson, hear her cry, hang up, still feeling the lump in my throat.

I'll sob.

I'll pay my honours to you, like a true captain should.

And, urging myself not to, I'll finally go to your grave; touch the black floe, called gravestone, with the aureate eight and six letters, without date, without year.

I'll pray for a _miracle_. Again. And again. And again.

I'll pray for this to have been just a God-damned experiment on me, just like in Baskerville. For you to come to me, to lean on my shoulder, to look at me with your glacial eyes, and to ask me with concern: _'Are you alright, John? Are you OK?'_

I will be, Sherlock. I shall, if I know you are alive. If you are next to me.

_Now people will definitely talk._


	2. Chapter 1

_**~Some Things Last Forever~**_

_**Chapter 1**_

_**The Game Is On**_

He is wearing a grey sweater I haven't seen before. He does so only whenever he is a) upset, b) nervous, c) both. His arms are languid; his hands do not shake, contrary to the first times he was here. He is much calmer than he was before, although his nails have traces of dirt. No, not dirt, it is more like fabric underneath his nails, which are in fact neatly trimmed. He has crabbed a wall; and, having in mind the fabric is black-greyish, these are tiny parts of wall-paper left there. He has twice spoken about the bulleting of Mrs Hudson's wall he does at 3a.m. and that he is so angry at my happy face on that exact same wall, that he'd tried several times to erase it. Apparently, he did almost succeed, making the final stroke with his own nails.

His trousers, not washed for a week or week and a half perhaps, are dark green, almost black; no sign of iron. Right, he still does live alone, away from Baker Street. His shoes are comfy, black; clearly, he has been around the City, because there are traces of dust on them, with small pieces of wood – probably, has passed across a construction site – plenty of them in the London centre; but has not been there too long, judging by the fact that the soles' grippers are not dirty at all. Yes, clearly the City – there is a Tube ticket for the Jubilee line in his pocket – has taken it from Baker Street to Waterloo. Baker Street? Why Baker Street? He moved to Harry, and then to a small apartment in Kenton. Yes, of course, he has seen Mrs Hudson – a second ticket for the Tube – Bakerloo, presumably from South Kenton to Baker Street. This explains the polished shoes – Mrs Hudson probably has taken care of them, and then the dust from the construction sites and the pollution in the City covered them a bit.

The weather is not too cold, rather chilly, but still he is wearing his green jacket over his sweater. Its pockets are full, he left his wallet in one of them – a thing he rarely does, only when he is exceptionally engrossed in his own deep thoughts. There are breadcrumbs on its collar – to be precise, on the inside of it – Mrs Hudson has made his favourite biscuit cake, judging also by the signs of brownish chocolate cream left a bit on the upper right corner of his lips. Clearly, he did not take off his jacket in 221B – it is not cold, as I've already mentioned, and there is no chance for Mrs Hudson to have left the flat unheated because of her atrocious hip – then, John stayed there for awhile.

Why? Why for awhile? Of course – on the crease of his right trouser pocket there are ink stains – there was something written he left there – probably, handed it to Mrs Hudson. I've met her here three times, while she was weeping over my death and snivelling about her penury. John won't leave her like that, regardless the fact he is not living with her any longer. He would give her some money. A cheque it is, then. He went to Mrs Hudson, stayed for awhile with her, while she argued with him about the money; then she treated him with a good late breakfast, obviously took the cheque – as it is no longer in John's pocket; then, he went to the City, taking the Jubilee to Waterloo, passed through a construction site, then came here. No sign of Tube or bus ticket – by car it is, then. Most likely, considering his semi-formal appearance, he has seen someone – not Lestrade, nor Mycroft – he's previously said he does not meet them regularly. Stamford? No, they see each other rarely and, if by any chance by daylight, only in a park. No, it was a business meeting then. Waterloo. South Bank. A hospital, very likely. He had a meeting, an important meeting in a hospital – most likely, an interview.

His eyes are motionless, focused on the tombstone in front of him. He moves closer, and then steps back. He is insure; something is troubling him. He puts the back of his hand on his lips, bites them (which he also rarely does – sign of nervousness), then sighs several times, and speaks softly, interrupting himself with heavy inhalations.

'I guess there is _no miracle _I should wait for.'

He smirks a little, then puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket and makes a step forward. His eyes now move anxiously; he is about to say something which makes him uncomfortable.

'Erm… You know, Sherlock, we are trying to move on. Erm…'

He bites his lips again. The way he moves his eyes left-right-left-right speaks that _he_ is the one he speaks of – the one who is trying to move on.

'It's been over a two years now. Haven't seen Mycroft since then. I know only he's taken some case of national importance, as always. Right after your de-... Right after _this_...' he points at the tombstone, 'he locked himself in his office, saying that it is the best thing he could do.'

He chuckles nervously. Right – hasn't seen Mycroft. Good choice of beginning – trying to start with the least probable subject of his interest right now. Puts a shabby tissue on his lips. Then, decisively, puts his hands back to his pocket.

'Look, Sherlock, let me be clear. _I _am trying to move on. Went to a kind of an interview today. She was great…'

'_Who?'_ I subconsciously ask, reminding myself of a dialogue we had some months ago. I put the collar of my coat up and lean towards the tree next to me.

'_It. It _was great. _The _offer. The job offer, I meant,' John, apparently, having in mind the same dialogue I did, grins.

Clearly, not the offer only. A female interviewer. I narrow my eyes, trying to guess (which I never do, in fact) her appearance. John likes when he is the taller one in a relationship (such a rarity, indeed!), likes to be the dominant type. There we go: **the **_**she**_is hardly more than 5' then. A slim girl – no, not a girl, rather a woman. Around 25… I squint my eyes – no, more like in her 30s. Dark hair – judging by John's dreamy eyes, more like dark chestnut one – he has some stereotype I cannot understand there, about '_the perfect woman'_. Yes, I am not a guessing type, I've already said, there are dark chestnut hairs on John's sweater collar. I've noticed them at the very beginning – now they absolutely do make sense. Light eyes, probably, though not sure – again, judging by _'his type'_. A doctor, clearly, a chief of the hospital – not the most superior one, because John won't pay attention to a woman on a position much higher than his own – as I've said, he prefers to be the dominant one. The hospital is a prestigious one – he is coming from the City. Waterloo, South Bank. The dust on his shoes leading to a construction site nearby – not when coming here from the South Bank – he came here by a car drive, as already said. Yes, of course, _she _drove him here. There are several hospitals in the South Bank area – as I reminisce, the only one with a construction nearby is the St Thomas' one. The woman's name… Hm, probably something like Anne or Betty, judging by his preference to short and easy names like Sarah, and the struggle he has with untypical names like Jeanette.

'The interviewer's name is Mary, chief doctor of the paediatrics in St Thomas'.'

Mary, of course, _why not Mary_?

'She was very kind and understood I really do need the job.'

'I've left you all of my wealth, John,' I whispered to myself. Not enough for him, obviously – he still needs to work. Does he? The cheque to Mrs Hudson, then, was from my own wealth. Well, a relief, I must say – not entirely a waste of money.

'I need to do something, Sherlock, although you've – and sincere thank you for that – left me an enormous wealth. Speaking of this, where the bloody hell, is it from? I mean, you were a consulting detective...'

'The only one in the world.'

'_... the only one in the world.'_

'Yes, thank you, John,' though, not sure whether he meant that about the detective part. Anyways, let's accept it was about that.

'... Where did it come from? I know your clients, I know how you work – you do not intend gaining money.'

'The police, John, it's the police.'

'It should be the _police_, then. I've never asked Lestrade anyways,' John sighed. The pressure, however, is still there. Something else? Unspoken?

He nervously drums with his fingers in his pockets – drums on his wallet, probably, as the sound of shaking coins is barely heard. Yes, I've already noticed the wallet, though now I see it more precisely – it is big and oval, not his usual soldier rectangular one; there are some engravings in it which I cannot distinguish exactly, because of the jacket over it, but could be seen through the cloth. It is _not his wallet_. It is someone el-... Oh, stupid, stupid me!

John went to St Thomas' to meet Harry – she has started drinking again, he has mentioned it several times before. This explains John's nervousness – he is never so nervous when first meeting a woman. Right – he went to the hospital in a semi-formal appearance to meet Harry's doctor, was disturbed about the news of her decayed health, and mostly about the fact that she has sneaked several times out of the hospital and bought herself a small bottle of... bad and really cheap brandy – yes, so it is. So, John left her in the hospital for some considerable period, paid for her additional stay there, and took with himself all of her money.

'_That. Was. Amazing,'_ I would hear in my ear. Not really.

When taking his hand out of the right pocket of his jacket, John unintentionally dragged out a small piece of printed paper – not a piece of paper, though – a check from a store it is. For a ½ pint American brandy from a local store just outside St Thomas'. It was bought five days ago, around, as I can see, 8p.m. (I cannot clearly see the minutes on the check) – at that time, John was in front of the gravestone, and I was behind this tree once again. Secondly, John does not drink alcohol of poor quality and almost never-ever a brandy – better a good glass of whiskey, preferably at domesticity.

So, it is_ Harry's_ wallet then. Though, John, as I can see, has his own wallet in the inner pocket of his jacket – he always puts it there – but I would not have noticed it not knowing his habits. So, besides the cheque in his pocket which he has charitably given to Mrs Hudson, he had some money with him, which he gave somewhere. He handed in a cheque to Mrs Hudson – not cash, but still had his wallet carefully hidden in his inner pocket – he needed the money. Taking the Jubilee to Waterloo means he spent the money in the South Bank. Not in an alcohol shop, most certainly, so in the hospital it is. The only reason – Harry. John is nervous and that is why he did not go anywhere else, but here – he wanted to share his feelings with a good friend. So, Harry is not better, despite the medical treatment in St Thomas.

The interview. Yes, the interview. There was no interview at all. John met _Mary_ either when coming to or leaving St Bart's. No, while leaving. She met him while he was – erm... Crying? Yes, crying – two wide, though already fading dark circles round his eyes (sign of lack of sleep, nervousness), in addition to the tense light-red nerves around his blue irises (sign of recent crying). She is a chief of paediatrics – comforted him and gave him a tissue, where she has written her office number (an easy deduction – starts with 020 – London code, not a mobile one) on the tissue. Yes, a tissue – he used it to touch his lips, but it was too shabby to deduce her name, although I've noticed it was a short one – thus, the conclusion about its simplicity. On the tissue there were several light eyelashes – certainly not John's (he has dark ones); only light-eyed people have light eyelashes – a light-eyed woman Mary is, as I thought. I've mentioned she is rather at her 30s – the handwriting on the tissue speaks for self-confident young woman – not too young, but enough to make unusual circles and dots on the numbers she writes; though, worked off through the years of constant writing (clearly, having to do it, being a chief doctor) – simple graphology analysis.

John told her later on he was a doctor. He does not really need a job for a living – he needs to entertain himself in some way. He told her about Harry. Mary had to leave the hospital – her shift has already finished. She was in the same direction as John, so she gave him a ride to the graveyard. She has pointed out some available places at St Thomas' for doctors with his experience – for him to be able to engage himself with something, and, second, to be close to his sister. He was not astonished by Mary as a persona, but more because of her understanding as to his difficult situation. Right, he said it – she '_understood he really does need the job_'.

'You know, Sherlock,' interrupting my thoughts – how impertinent of you, John, 'I told you you're the most human- human being I've ever known. This is so damn true right now. If you were such a genius, you won't have died, _you'd be right there_, hiding behind a tree or something, listening to the bullshit I'm talking right now, and rolling your eyes.'

How strange, John! Now you observe, but do not see. Wondered whether this was possible.

'You are really _a fake_, Sherlock. If you were true, you'd stop this,' again, his thin fingers are pointing at the grave. There is something heavy in my chest as I'm inhaling. John would probably know what it is. Pain? No, hardly. I cannot feel any pain. Fear, I've felt in Baskerville, I remember. Doubt? Strange, but again noticed in Baskerville. That I can bear. Unusual for Sherlock Holmes, though could be seen. But pain and hurt? No, I cannot imagine that. Pain and hurt speak for sentiment and, thus, for self-destruction. It is inherent only to the weak and caring ones. This is _not pain, nor hurt_. But it is the exact same feeling – rather, mix of feelings – I had on the rooftop of St Bart's.

'I... Erm... Sorry, I can't go on like that, Sherlock. It's been over two years now, I'll...' he brushes his nose with his thumb, 'I'll probably just stop coming here. It's better for both of us.'

This feeling, again. I feel pursing my lips and shivering a bit as I reveal myself out of the tree. _'Step back. It's not the time for John to see you yet.'_

'Today I went to Mrs Hudson – she sends her most warming regards. I gave her some of your money: the poor woman does not have any tenants in 221B now, since you've died. There is hardly anyone who would like to take _the apartment of Sherlock Holmes_.'

'Because I'm a _fake_,' I subconsciously accentuate on the last word, making a grimace. Of course, the world does think I am a fraud – I read it every day in the newspapers. I thought it will be erased in six months or at least a year, but the rumours still go on and on.

'You know, Sherlock...' John steps several feet back from the grave with an intention to go but turns back, 'The world still thinks you _are_ a fraud. Remember when you told me Moriarty is playing with my mind as well? That he's sought the seed of the idea that you were a swindler in my mind all along? Remember what I told you back then?'

'_That you know me for sure.'_

'You're the most imbecile creature I've ever known, Sherlock,' he gulps, only to release a whispering voice, lacking proper breathing, 'But still... I hope that one day _this_ would stop. I _believe _in this. _This _doesn't suit you, Sherlock. _This _is not you.'

He gulps once again, sighs, purses his lips strongly.

'There. I've been repeating this for about thirty months now. While others say hurtful things about you, I still believe,' he inhales and exhales several times, then salutes like he always does when leaving the grave, 'Goodbye, Sherlock. See you here, in a month time – I'll tell you more about the... _job_ then.'

The limp is still there as he leaves. Though, he does not use his cane anymore, the psychotic hobble is still apparent.

I come from behind of the tree while he is going away in the distance. Subconsciously, I turn my coat collar up and put my hands in the pockets of the coat. My eyes catch the fake golden letters on the black gravestone, as I feel the smirk drawn on my face.

'You've said enough, John. But no, I'll not wait a month – it'll be sooner,' the smirk goes wider as the plan is clicking in my mind, **'**_**The game, my friend, is on**_**.'**


	3. Chapter 2

_**~Some Things Last Forever~**_

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Ready Whenever You Are**_

A knock on the door made him raise his eyebrows a bit, but not to pay any particular attention to it. He continued scanning through the huge newspaper in front of him with a bit of indifferent look; the knocking continued as well. But he knew – a two-times-knock, the first being shorter than the latter – meant only one thing. _**He**_ has finally come here.

The tall figure, dressed in the perfectly well-known black-greyish wool coat, stood in front of him. He still did not direct his eyes at the persona standing right under the huge antique door-frame, but instead wetted his fingers and turned over another page of the newspaper on his desk. The tall figure moved closer, shutting the heavy ornamented black door behind himself. Its thin fingers – appearing to be so fragile, almost brittle – produced a barely heard cracking sound when taking off the black leather gloves. The dark blue scarf swarmed smoothly through the wool cloth of his coat collar when untied, but still decided to be left loose on the neck.

'The murderer is one of the hospital doctors, obviously,' the tall figure paused at the middle of the room. His constantly changing eyes – through icy blue to dark green and even cloudy greyish – studied the spacious room quickly but rather thoroughly.

'Three of them were on shift at this ward last night,' he closed the newspaper and leaned back on his leather chair, 'Dear brother, it has been a tremendously long time, I shall say…'

'And you are happy to see me, I presume?'

'Utterly,' he smiled affectedly, and made a gesture at the chair in front of the other man, 'But please, you're offending me; sit down.'

'I meant no offence, indeed. I've not been around for almost three years; I no longer feel quite at ease,' tried to fake a smile, hauling his coat up and sitting at the edge of the big chair.

'Oh, please, Sherlock!' he waived and stood up, directing himself to the bottle of whiskey at the corner of the room, 'We both know you've been around for quite a long time now. Not wishing to reveal yourself to your beloveth doctor?'

'Oddly enough, Mycroft…' he opened his icy-blue eyes wide, '_No_. It's not the time yet.'

'He's already started working in…' Mycroft gulped a bit from his glass of whiskey while pattering on the newspaper article about the murderer.

'This is why I came here, Mycroft. To my greatest regret, you seem to _know_ more than I do right now.'

'Well, I declare! We both know that's not quite true.'

'You, brother, insist putting the two of us in an universal common knowledge, which I most utterly cherish – of course, I do; but still, I think that now the best thing for us to do is to try to co-ordinate our thoughts and skills, while endeavouring to solve this crime.'

'Bored again?'

'Wretchedly.'

'Well, I can imagine. It's been quite a long time. Seen John?'

'Used to. Last saw him twenty-three days ago, at the graveyard.'

'Apparently, he and this Dr Mary Morstan are quite... intimate. Let's put it that way.'

Sherlock pursed his lips as his eyes travelled back and forth through the office, focusing on the half-empty bottle of whiskey which Mycroft visited minutes ago. There was another one, but almost absolutely full, right on the mantelpiece. Sherlock returned his gaze back to his brother.

'How was the biscuit cake you had for quick breakfast, Mycroft?' Sherlock clicked with his tongue and gave his brother a wink, 'Bad for your diet, I may say.'

'None of your business, I shall add, dearest brother,' Mycroft once again faked a slight smile, 'I'm starting to lose my patience here and, besides, a person of great national importance is waiting for me. So, shall you say something, brother?'

'Oh, he is clever, isn't he?' Sherlock leaned towards the desk and rested his elbows on it, locking his long brittle fingers together. He screwed up his almost dark green eyes and locked them on Mycroft who made a disgusted countenance.

'Who? Speak directly, or else I shall leave.'

'Oh, come on, Mycroft! '_We both know_' whom I'm going on about!' Sherlock raised his voice a bit but still managed to keep it steady, 'I am not dead. Moriarty is not dead either. Your '_case of great national importance_' which John mentioned, the '_person of great national importance_' you talked about… He is still here, isn't he?'

'Maybe,' Mycroft made something between a smile and a haughty grimace, 'Though I suggest you stay out of this, Sherlock.'

'Oh, shall I?' Sherlock giggled nervously, 'No, no. Do not go on believing I don't know a single thing about what happened thirty-one months ago. Mummy would be extremely upset had she known how the older brother betrayed the younger one.'

'Sherlock, I had to d-...'

'Oh, please, don't go for it!' Sherlock waived and stood up, buttoning up his coat and putting its collar up, 'Don't bother. I know you'll come to me even sooner than you think. And you are aware of where to find me, don't you? Because I think you have something of my own. And I truly believe, brother dear, that you'll compensate for your misconduct,' Sherlock once again winked at Mycroft while opening again the black door, 'And you should probably clean up the biscuit crumbs at the edge of your desk – it speaks incredibly negatively about your strict diet.'

As the door closed behind Sherlock, Mycroft sighed and wetted his lower lip. He leaned back on his leather chair and turned a small silver key to open the nearest to him drawer. There was a black phone. Mycroft took it out carefully and put it on his desk. Massaging nervously his forehead with his palms, he stood like this for a minute or two, looking blankly at the phone in front of him; then bluntly took out of his pocket his own phone and quickly dialled a number.

'Hello?'

He sighed several times, doubting whether the hang up or not.

'_Hello, Mycroft?_ Are you there? What's going on?'

'John, take Dr Mortsan and please… _Please_, the two of you need to leave St Thomas' as quickly as possible.'

'What's going on, Mycroft?' John's voice raised in suspicion, 'Tell me.'

'Just do what I say. As quickly as possible.'

As Mycroft hung up, John stayed like that for several seconds, then grabbed his jacket off the hanger, and jumped out of his office, right in front of the aghast eyes of his patients in the waiting-room. He felt his pulse raising up and up with each and every second, as he ran through the hospital corridors, trying to reach the paediatrics.

'_You are not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it.'_

As he ran around the hospital for desperate need to see Mary somewhere amongst all these people, something just felt so damn right. He has completely forgotten about his limp; his eyes were wide open in dismay and full with desire at the same time. He was incredibly happy that something has taken him out of his wicked boredom. It was as though as Sherlock was it him. Though, he was _not_.

'Lindsay, have you seen Mary somewhere?'

The nurse just shook her head blankly as she passed by John. He was almost at the end of the paediatrics clinic – no sign of Mary. It was unlikely for her to be at her office at the busiest time of the day, but he still had to check.

As he opened the door of her neatly ordered office, the scent of her fruity perfume hit him instantly – it was too sensible; probably, has always been such, but he just hadn't noticed. The windows were shut – strange thing for Mary who liked her windows wide open, except when there was a strong wind. As he went slowly inside the office, he noticed her badge on the desk. She would never leave it. Right. _She was in danger_. John rushed out the office, not bothered to even close the door.

As he stepped out of the taxi, Sherlock put his coat collar up so that only his eyes were half-seen. When he entered St Thomas', a tall man with dark hair pushed him a bit, then apologised and walked out in the distance. Sherlock turned back to examine the man, but the sun was so dazzling right in his eyes that he instantly closed them, hardly delineating the man's contours and those of a woman, not taller than 5', walking in front of the man.

As he entered the hospital, right through the paediatrics wing, Sherlock did not put his coat collar down, but surveyed the people around, inhaling and exhaling silently. A short plump woman passed nearby and smiled politely.

'May I help you, sir?'

'Oh, yes, thank you,' Sherlock still was with his collar up to his lower eyelashes, 'I apologise for my appearance, but I am... erm, sick... and I honestly do not want to infect the others, especially the kids.'

'Of course,' the woman smiled. Sherlock responded with smiling eyes.

'My nephew is here. My brother and sister-in-law are out of the country at the moment, so they asked me to look for him, not to bother the grannies, you know...'

'Yes, yes. What is his name?'

'Well, I need first to speak to his doctor. Dr Mortsan, I think, she is.'

'Yes. Room 312, 3rd floor, left of the elevators.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock went immediately to the staircases and looked up and down. Chose the second option, leading to the basements. Went out through a small door, presumably for the staff, and found himself just under the window of 312.

'Closed window. Not in her office then – the weather is more than pleasant, she is chief of the paediatrics – obliged to let some air come into her office. Fine. He did not come through the window then, and took her somewhere else. Not in the basements – no signs of steps, no footprints. Ok, not important where she is now. Who took h-... Oh, of course! _'The murderer is one of the hospital doctors.'_ Mycroft said there were three of them last night on a shift in the ward. The murder happened in the... Oh, hell no!'

Sherlock rushed back through the small door and climbed up the stairs to the third floor. Found the door of 312 wide open and entered without being noticed.

'Strong fruity fragrance – obviously, he has – or rather, possessed – a distinctive aroma himself – most probably, of a chemical; thus, he sprayed the office all around with her perfume when kidnapping her, not to leave any sign.'

Sherlock went to the desk, saw the badge, and then quickly rolled his stormy greyish eyes while checking her agenda.

'10am Laura, 11.30am Tiffany, around 12.30pm see Harry & then have lunch with John.'

Sherlock looked at his watch. 12.30pm. She was not seeing Harry, certainly. It was _this_ Harry, most likely. Sherlock turned over the pages of the small pink agenda one by one – '_Harry Watson, psychiatrics, Room 217. Dr Sebastian Moran.'_

Sherlock rushed once again, going down the stairs, then slowly and gentlemanly through the corridor, nodding at the elderly ladies in the waiting-room; then again running through the doors of the different wards, finally reaching the psychiatrics. Room 211, 213, 215. Right, here it is.

Harry laid still in her bed – probably sleeping. Sherlock looked around, entered the room slowly, and opened the wardrobe by the bed, grubbing up her clothes. Underneath all of them was a ½ pint of cheap American brandy – almost entirely finished. Sherlock squatted, opened the bottle and ran his fingers through its mouth, then under his nose and sniffled. Smiled. Right as he thought.

Harry moved a bit murmuring, _'No, doctor, John will scold me. Please, I don't want to drink it. It's not right.'_

Sherlock stood up but then heard a person coming at the door. Looked around. The person stopped right before entering the room as someone accosted him.

'Dr Moran, is Harry Watson any better?'

'I doubt so. She doesn't seem to stop thinking about drinking.'

Sherlock opened the window and looked down. Fine. He jumped off a rooftop; he can deal with two floors. Two figures – of a man hugging a woman, stood right under the window. Damn it. No, not John; not with Mary. _Damn it, damn it._

The person came even closer. Sherlock opened the wardrobe – knowing this is the greatest mistake he could possibly do – and squeezed into it.

'Hello, Harry... Bet you don't know what I have in here?' the doctor waived a piece of paper, signed carelessly, 'Our pretty Dr Mortsan signed your prescription for the _Lexotan_ we've wanted for so long. How does that sound to you? Your treatment is going on just fabulous.'

Moran went closer to the wardrobe, giggling. Sherlock bated his breath and stood still. The doors opened widely and Sherlock smashed the brandy bottle at the doctor's head, then opened the window, and jumped off it.

'Mary, are you sure you're al-... _**What, the bloody hell?**_' John just opened his dark blue eyes wide as a morbidly well-known figure appeared in front of him. Sherlock felt John's gaze on his back, exhaled deeply, and turned around. After several seconds of silence, Sherlock smirked, his sky-blue eyes sparkling.

'Got my breath back. Ready?'

John, still looking with half-opened mouth, stared first at Sherlock, than at Mary; then, all over again. Then, shook his head, chuckling. Sherlock laughed softly, looking with the corner of his eye right behind John, at the guards rushing through the hospital doors. John nodded silently.

'_Whenever you are.'_

Mary just stood there, staring blankly in front of her, shivering with dread, while the guards passed by her in fierce running, as John was fading away in the distance with a man who she has seen for the first time in her life. _But whom she was just starting to know better._


	4. Chapter 3

_**Note:**_ I am so terribly _sorry_ that the update is so late, but I have hundreds of essays and stuff to do, so I am incredibly busy right now. Don't know when the next update will be, but I hope you'll like my story. xx

_**~Some Things Last Forever~**_

_**Chapter 3**_

_**The Only One in the World**_

John leaned against the brick wall and tried to catch his breath. His dark blue eyes moved up and down Sherlock's tall figure; then he shook his head and took his next deep breath.

'Right. Good. You're…' John licked his lips and laughed nervously, out of breath, 'You're _alive_ then. Good.'

'Not the right moment to discuss this, John,' Sherlock, moving his wide-open eyes around the two of them, was thinking about their next move. His bluish eyes focused on the staircase of the building against which John was leaning, and then he looked back at John, 'Are you coming?'

'Well, I'm already here,' John clicked his tongue and sighed once again. Sherlock flung aside his black woollen coat and literally jumped across the stairs. He reached the rooftop of the old building something like a minute before John was able to join him. Sherlock stood there, his thin fingers cutting the air around him, gesticulating nervously, as he was thinking what to do next. Suddenly, he turned his face back to John's, who was sitting at the edge, trying to catch his breath. Poor John, he was out of practice now. No more running and chasing around the streets and corners of London since Sherlock's 'death.' Sherlock put his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, still steadily looking at his fellow. His piercing gaze followed every move of John's.

'Shall I speak now?'

Silence. John was reluctant to respond. On one hand he was so eager to jump and hug Sherlock so tightly and never to let him go once again; on the other, though, he was dying to punch those cheekbones of his so damn hard. And this time, _without_ missing the nose and the teeth. But he was just sitting there – awkwardly calm, not really realising whether this was a dream or reality.

'John?' Sherlock's voice, slightly trembling, followed by a mere nervous cough, made John raise his dark blue eyes and to look at Sherlock's.

'Yes, Sher-...' John pouted, then nodded with a sarcastic smile, 'No, it's not like I need any explanation or something. It's fine. It's absolutely fine.'

Sherlock looked aside, nervously twiddling the cloth of his woollen coat behind his back, then sighed and made a step towards John.

'John, listen, I-...'

'Nope,' John shook his head, 'I've waited for 31 months, Sherlock. 31 months! Almost three bloody years!'

'Yes, I know. Jo-...'

'No, you don't. You don't know how devastated I was. You don't know what was going on; what _I_ was going through. You don't know any of this,' John pointed his finger at Sherlock, angrily, 'And _**you**_ _don't have_ _any __**bloody**_ _right_ to stay in front of me... _**alive**_ and to tell me, like you always do, that everything is alright. No, it's not alright; it's not ok.'

'I know.'

'I doubt it,' John turned his head aside squeezing his eyes so hardly, as to unable the tears fighting in them to roll down his cheeks.

'Look, John, I... It had to be done. Otherwise, it would have been worse,' Sherlock felt the uncertainty in his voice, so he shook his head once again.

'Oh, really? Worse? Worse than Sherlock Holmes being dead?' John laughed sarcastically. The treacherous tear finally rolled down his right cheek. John did not even bother wiping it away. He coughed and stood up, smoothing his dark green jacket, 'I think it's better for me to go back to Mary. She's frightened to death now, probably.'

'No!' Sherlock made several quick steps towards John and grabbed his shoulder tightly, turning his face at his, 'Just... Stay here and listen to me.'

John's eyes moved across Sherlock's face, then at the thin long fingers locked tightly around his arm. John smirked and looked at Sherlock's pale blue eyes once again.

'Right,' John nodded slightly. Sherlock let a small smile run through his face, and then stepped back.

'Dr Morstan is in danger – you already know that. You weren't at the hospital when I was there, so you were looking for her, thinking something must have happened.'

'Mycroft called and told me to take her away from St Thomas' as soon as possible.'

'Mycroft?' Sherlock looked at John with questioning eyes, lifting his left eyebrow. John nodded, 'Well, that does not really surprise me. Was at his office today. I believe he possesses something of my own, which would be of fair importance.'

'Your phone?'

Sherlock paused a bit, looking hesitantly at John. John smirked in return.

'Well, forgive _me_, Sherlock. The phone was with me for some time, but then I had to give it to Mycroft, because he was so eager to have it,' John paused observing every single reaction on Sherlock's face, 'Wonder why.'

Sherlock turned even paler than before. He swallowed hard.

'I...' he cleared up his throat, 'There was something that...'

'Doesn't matter,' John gesticulated indifferently, 'All that matters now is what is going on around Mary.'

'Right,' Sherlock took a deep breath, 'It's not only _around Mary_, I presume. Harry's doctor – do you know him? I mean – know him _well_?'

'Dr Sebastian Moran?' Sherlock nodded, 'Well... I know him; I've talked to him regarding Harry's health. Several times. I guess... yeah, I know him.'

'No, you _don't_,' Sherlock wrinkled his forehead and clicked with his tongue, 'And I can't believe you've forgotten so much, John. It seems like you've never known me.'

Silence. Awkward and dreadful silence. Both of them knew what would follow. John locked his eyes at Sherlock waiting patiently. Sherlock took a deep breath.

'Dr Sebastian Moran. A medic, certainly – in this aspect he is not a liar. When I was at Harry's room, someone stopped him just at the door and asked him about _Harry Waston's_ condition. So, this person obviously knew perfectly well the patients there – he must be a chief or something in the hospital; and knows Dr Moran fairly well, having some confidence in him, since he did not want any details about Harry's treatment. So, Moran has some reputation in the clinic and, thus, not strictly and thoroughly observed.'

'Yes, there were some considerations on promoting him.'

'Right,' Sherlock nodded and started walking back and forth, 'Probably, you've already read the papers?'

'Last night's murder? Just seen the headlines: not enough time to read the articles thoroughly.'

'The murder was near Harry's room. Three doctors were on shift last night there – one of them is Dr Moran.'

'Well?'

'Let me start from the very beginning. Harry is in the hospital because she started drinking again. She was quite alright; then, when she started drinking again, you had several consultations with doctors on what to do next.'

'Her doctor is out of Britain, so...'

'So you've contacted Dr Moran?'

'Not really. Mycroft recommended him to me,' a pause. Sherlock faked a smile.

'It makes a perfectly good sense now. So... Mycroft recommended you Dr Sebastian Moran, and you had full confidence in his right choice. The three of you went to Moran who was a fine man – nothing unusual and exceptional about him. His perfect medical qualifications were enough for you, and after – let's say – half an hour, you were absolutely confident that Harry shall stay in the hospital and shall be treated according to Dr Moran's instructions,' Sherlock paused a bit and dropped his eyes, 'A nice and neat deduction – when going to this wing of the hospital, in search of Harry's room, I've passed through an office with a 'Dr Sebastian Moran' plaque on it. The door was slightly open – not too slightly, however, for his diplomas and honours not to be seen. One of them was from Bart's – it was the closest one to the door. No doubt, you were astonished by a person who has studied in Bart's, just like you.'

'He's several years younger than me, though,' John nodded.

'Dr Moran is new at the clinic – the plaque on his door is fairly new, but that didn't matter to you, obviously. You decided to leave Harry there. Right. But she doesn't get any better at all – on the contrary, she even does sneak out of her room and goes outside the hospital, secretly buying alcohol. Once when you were at the graveyard, I've noticed the check for a ½ pint cheap American brandy from a store near St Thomas', bought at time when you were at the graveyard once again. Harry's wallet was with you as well. So, you thought Harry is not getting any better, but Mycroft told you she will be.'

'Fine.'

'No, she _won't_ be. And yes, you are totally wrong of accusing her. Harry does not wish to drink anymore. When I was at her room, she was sleeping and talking in her sleep that she is afraid you would scold her if you find out she is drinking. She was talking to Dr Sebastian Moran. Wait, here comes the interesting part,' Sherlock smirked, 'Dr Moran has _**drugged**_ Harry. Several times. And goes on like that. He uses her deadly addiction to the alcohol and drugs her. Against her will.'

'Why?'

'This I don't know. Yet,' Sherlock smirked once again, 'However, Dr Moran, as I've pointed out, is fairly new at the hospital and, as you've said, he is several years younger than you. Although he has some really good qualifications, he still does _not_ have the necessary authorisation to prescribe certain medicines.'

'So...' John started nodding slowly, realising where Sherlock is going at, 'He took Mary to prescribe them.'

'_Exactly_. He took Dr Morstan to prescribe not really a medicine, but a drug. An easy-peasy deduction – he expressed his joy about this in front of the sleeping Harry.'

'What drug?'

'He said it's a _Lexotan_. I didn't have the chance to look at the prescription, but having in mind that Lexotan could be a deadly drug, it cannot be prescribed in large doses by only one doctor. I'm sure you know its characteristics – in combination with alcohol, there are some pronounced impairments of learning capacity. Harry sensed something was not going quite well, but she did not have the ability to speak about it out loud, nor to oppose it. Her memory starts to disobey her, she feels drowsy – you've certainly already seen that. She is dependent on the Lexotan – or also known as _Bromazepam_ – and, thus, fully dependent on her doctor. However, no matter what a _perfect_ reputation Mary has – no offence – she cannot prescribe the amount I've sensed when taking a smell of the ½ pint American brandy bottle I found at the bottom of Harry's wardrobe.'

'The murder?'

'The murder,' Sherlock nodded and smiled like a proud parent looking at his child, 'The murdered one was a doctor.'

'One of the three at shift last night?'

'Nope. Took a glance at the newspaper on Dr Morstan's desk – she was just starting to read the article when Moran came for her. The murdered was not on shift that night – in fact, I presume, he was going home when someone killed him... accidentally, of course,' Sherlock grinned sarcastically.

'So, you think Moran killed him?'

'Quite possibly, the doctor in question – I believe, his name was Jeremy Carr, who was also working at this wing of the hospital & was a colleague of Dr Moran, and also a deputy chief of the clinic, as I've read (therefore, a person with a high reputation, I shall add) – was the prescriber of Harry's medicines. One of them. Mary wasn't one of the prescribers. Till today. Most likely, Dr Carr refused to sign any further prescriptions in favour of his colleague, so he was... murdered. Or the other reason, I guess, was the fact you've pointed out – not only has Carr refused further prescriptions, but was a hindrance for Moran's eventual promotion.'

'Why Mary?'

'She kept it in secret, I presume?' Sherlock chuckled a bit, 'She _was_ promoted.'

'She is alrea-... Oh... Oh!' John took a deep breath, realising what is going on, 'So, **she** is the _deputy chief_ of St Thomas' now. I see.'

'Exactly. She has noted in her small agenda – her first meeting today was at 8.30, with the chiefs of the hospital. When she got back at her office, she has already received something like – let's say, a postcard from someone with initials 'SM' congratulating her on her new position – it was on her desk. She was quite happy, I shall say, for she had drawn several smiley faces wherever she could – how sweet and wonderful – till he came for her at around 12 o'clock.'

'SM. Sebastian Moran. So, she knew him?'

'Most likely. Her perfume is on the last shelf of the wall cupboard right behind her desk – its door wasn't closed properly. The perfume bottle was almost empty – I'm sure you've visited Mary's office once Mycroft told you to get her and run away.'

'A very strong fruity fragrance. She never uses so much of her perfume.'

'I would like to think so. Moran had entered the room – quite possibly, as if to congratulate Mary on her new position, face to face. She was happy to see him, but then she sensed the dreadful smell he had. Wrong choice of perfume? No, I doubt it – you do have an awful aroma taste, as well. So, the smell was unusual – not only for Moran, but as a whole.'

'A chemical?'

'Yes. An anaesthetic.'

'That does explain why her window was closed – he didn't want the smell to go out or to evaporate. He wanted to dope her.'

'Exactly,' Sherlock nodded, 'He came there and closed the already opened window. It was opened until then, for there were several damp drops on its wooden inner sill – morning drops – so, she has opened the window once she came into her office early at the morning.'

'Right. He closed the window.'

'They talked a bit. Mary went dopey and started to get a bit sleepy. He convinced her to go out and take some fresh air.'

'Ok. But she's an incredible medic – she could have smelled the anaesthetic.'

'She _did_. But she is a bit naive – forgive me, but you know that as well; – he probably told her that he has just come from the lab and his hands were not fully washed off. He gave him a wet tissue – he left it on her desk before leaving. As we've already mentioned – he most probably knew her quite well – he opened the wall cupboard behind her desk and took out the perfume bottle, spraying a fair amount of it around the room – to kill the unpleasant smell.'

'But she was already dopey.'

'Yes. So, he left the perfume back at its position – not quite closing the cupboard's door. He was the one who sprayed it – the smell of the anaesthetic could still be sensed at the edge of the cupboard's door and there were some fingerprints on it – thick thumbs – obviously, not of a woman,' Sherlock paused a bit, 'So, he took her out for 'some fresh air,' while she was not really realising what was going on. When I came at St Thomas', a tall man with dark hair pushed me rudely. He was with a short woman, but I couldn't see them, because of the sunlight shining directly at my eyes and blinding me. Later, when I saw Moran and, of course, Mary, I realised they were them.'

'So, they walked out of St Thomas' through the main entrance?'

'Yes.'

'And no one sensed his awful smell?'

'First, he probably stayed at Mary's office for some time. Second, he used a wet tissue to wipe it out. Thirdly, he sprayed the fruity perfume all over her room, including his hands. The smell has started to evaporate slowly. Once they were rushing through the hospital, there was nothing unusual about a typical smell in a medical building.'

'So, he took her out. And then?'

Sherlock paused, biting his lips.

'Her badge was on her desk, Sherlock.'

'Yes, I've noticed that,' Sherlock sighed and looked around, 'It's not a mistake of his – no. It can't be.'

'Well, why would he-...'

'Of course, of course!' Sherlock clapped his hands with a spark in his eyes, 'Thank you, John! After all, you're not so out of practice as I've thought. Moran wanted _you_ to know she is in danger. And by _you_ knowing that, he wanted _me_ to be engaged in this as well.'

'Right,' a pause, 'Hold on a minute. Am I the only one who still thinks you're dead?'

'Well... You and Mrs Hudson. And Lestrade,' Sherlock smiled quickly, 'Calm down.'

'Thanks. This is really making me feel slightly better.'

'Knew it,' Sherlock smiled a bit, waiting for a reciprocal smile from John. Nothing. Just blank, judgemental face. Sherlock became stoned, a bit disappointed.

'So, he wanted for _us_ to know. Then?'

'Don't you remember who else threw hints at me and wanted so desperately to show off, provoking me?'

'Don't tell me _he_ isn't dead, as well. I saw his corpse with my own eyes.'

'Let's not jump to conclusions. You saw _my_ corpse as well.'

'Sherlock!' John's eyes locked at Sherlock's. Pause, 'I took you phone. I was there. _I saw him dead_. On the rooftop,' John swallowed hard.

'I don't know what to think. Went to Mycroft – he knows something, he certainly does – but he is reluctant to tell me.'

'You think Moran is working for Moriarty?'

'Well, Moriarty told me that he is eager to find an ordinary comrade for himself – just like I found you.'

'Thank you,' John nodded, a little bit affected, and went towards the staircase, 'That... was... quite interesting. I guess I shall really go now.'

'John...' but John has already started climbing down, 'John!'

John reached the ground and started walking towards the loud noises coming from the avenue nearby. Sherlock walked slowly behind him, locking his puppy eyes right at John's back head. John stopped, sensing Sherlock's gaze and steps after him. Sherlock stopped as well – his hands buried deep down into his coat pockets. John smirked and made several steps forward. Sherlock followed him. John stopped once again. Sherlock did the same. John chuckled silently and turned around to face the perplexed look in Sherlock's ice-blue eyes.

'You want to tell me something, Sherlock?' John's gaze, filled with expectation, was fixed on Sherlock who trembled a bit. Sherlock took several deep breaths, took his right hand out of his coat pocket, and nervously touched his lower lip with his thumb, 'As I thought. Well, goodbye, Sherlock. It was nice meeting... a _dead man_. Good luck. I hope Mycroft will tell you something more... _sooner or later_.'

John turned back and started walking again. Sherlock just stood there, motionless.

'John! John, _please_! John, I...' Sherlock gathered all his strength. His eyes – if one didn't know Sherlock Holmes – were as though as filled with tears. He swallowed hard, '_**John, I'm sorry**_.'

John didn't stop, just slowed down a bit. '_Not enough, Sherlock, still not enough to compensate for those three years_.' Sherlock made several quick steps towards John, grabbed his shoulder for a second time today, and turned John's face at his own.

'Look, John! _I'm terribly sorry_. I didn't mean to... _**I didn't know you'd be so affected**_. You told me you owe me so much, right?'

'Right.'

'Now, I guess, _**I owe you a thousand apologies**_.'

Silence. John was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat or two. His trembling lips opened to say something, but then closed as he pouted, fighting all those tears once again.

'_I hate you_,' John's trembling voice made Sherlock smile. Oh, how rare those moments were! And how much John adored and remembered every single detail of each one of them! To see the great Sherlock Holmes smiling, apologising, _feeling_. _Being a human._ He couldn't hate this man – after all, Sherlock was the only person in the world who brought him back to life. Unexpectedly for both of them, but still did it. _**The only one in the world.**_

'I know,' Sherlock smile grew wider, as they both suddenly burst out giggling. A sudden mobile ring interrupted them. John answered, stepping several steps away from Sherlock, as he followed him down the street. John suddenly hung up and looked at the phone in his hand; then slowly put it back into his pocket. Sherlock eyes widened as he literally ran towards John. It was the same phone. It was _his__ phone_.

'John!'

'Oh, shut up, Sherlock. _Not the right moment to discuss this,_' John chuckled at the sight of Sherlock's surprised face, 'We have some work to do now, don't you think?' John raised his hand, 'Taxi!'


	5. Chapter 4

_**Note:**_ I've tried to update as soon as possible, though I've had my laptop completely broken, then I went back to Bulgaria for the spring vacation. Basically, now I'm writing in my spare time, between the thousands of course work I have to do. I most utterly apologise for being so slow in my fic writing, but I still do have some hope that you like my story. xx

_**~Some Things Last Forever~**_

_**Chapter 4**_

_**The Tension of the Game**_

I studied his icy eyes as we've turned around the corner of Baker Street and stopped. He moved a bit hesitantly, then opened the door doubtfully, and sprang out of the black cab. Putting both his hands into his pockets and tucking his head in his coat collar, Sherlock looked at me with an indefinite look. His eyes moved slowly, like rising up a question, then locked up on mine.

I gave some money to the cab driver, insisted on him taking the change, and smiled at Sherlock. To be honest, I was just trying not to burst out laughing. But Sherlock, as always, was dead serious.

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Tell you _what_?' I am not so naive, after all, but it's always entertaining to tease Sherlock Holmes.

As we approached the black door of 221B and I raised my hand to ring the bell, Sherlock puffed slightly.

'What does _my_ phone do in _your_ pocket?'

'Oh, _this_!' I chuckled a bit. Not amusing to him, though, '_I am not that stupid, you know._'

The door half-opened and Mrs Hudson looked at me with an exhausted smile. She still couldn't see Sherlock, so I've grabbed her arms and pushed her in. She looked at me with concern.

'What's wrong, John? Why are you here? I've just made some t-...'

Right. Here we go.

Mrs Hudson put her right hand on her chest and started breathing heavily. I grabbed her arms even tighter, as her breathing went so arrhythmic, that she started coughing. She looked at me, then at Sherlock, then again at me, then again at him.

'John? John? Am I dreaming?'

I made a quick glance at Sherlock, just to see his pale face turning up pinkish, and his lips moving hesitantly, unsure of what to say. His eyes weren't icy now – they were warm blue, rather skyish, and were locked on the shocked Mrs Hudson. He stretched his left hand, right behind my arm, and his thin fingers locked together with the rough old ones of Mrs Hudson. She gasped and her eyes moved with tears.

'How are you, Mrs Hudson?' his warm voice made the old woman shiver under my grasp, and she, left without a proper breath, wrenched herself free of my hands, and threw herself into Sherlock's. He folded in Mrs Hudson arms and smiled a bit. **A picture one-of-a-kind**.

The corridor of 221B was dead silent; the silence interrupted only by the irregular sniffling of Mrs Hudson. Sherlock took out of his coat pocket a tissue and handed it to her, smiling once again. To see him smile minute after minute was too much even for me.

'I believe you said you've just made some tea. Am I right, Mrs Hudson?' Sherlock smirked while Mrs Hudson nodded, wiping up the tears off her face with the tissue.

'Yes. Yes, dear.'

'I'll be delighted to take a sip or two. No one makes the tea as well as you do,' he winked at her as she chuckled, 'And trust me, I've had quite a lot of cups for these... three years.'

I sighed and shook my head. Mrs Hudson looked at me with an inquiring look and I nodded.

'I'll be back in five minutes, boys,' she moved to her room, 'Ah, Sherlock? Do you want a cake with it too?'

Sherlock smiled once again, 'Leave the cake for Mycroft, Mrs Hudson. I believe he'll be here in about ten minutes or so.'

'A nice 'family and friends' meeting it will be, then!' she walked in her room, as I've climbed the stairs, with Sherlock right behind me. As we entered the familiar flat, I felt my heart skipping a beat or two. I knew it for sure – South Kenton won't be the place for me any longer. But _this_... This flat has always been my home. And now more than ever.

Sherlock loosened his dark blue scarf and unbuttoned his coat. As he took it off and gently put it on the back of one of the chairs, his eyes moved around the flat, studying it carefully.

'No tenants, you say...'

'Well, yes. No one wants to live in the flat of Sherlock Holmes.'

'Right,' Sherlock pouted a bit as he arranged his black _Spencer Hart_ suit, 'And _wrong_,' he stretched his right hand, pointing at the corner of the bed, 'When we entered the flat, you looked at your right – a habit of yours when you enter a building or a premise: you like to look around – I believe, a soldier's habit. So, you should've noticed the dark red lipstick right next to the bed. It's been used, I presume...'

Sherlock made several quick steps and kneeled down. He took the lipstick, opened its cap, and sniffed it. I saw the _Chanel_ sign on the cap, when Sherlock kneeled even lower, to take a look under the bed. A moment or two later, he dragged out a riding crop from underneath. He stood up, the riding crop in his right hand as he was slapping it slightly over his left palm. He lifted his eyebrows as he locked his eyes on mine.

'Any ideas?'

'_It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me,_' Mycroft entered the flat and faked a smile, 'Dr Watson! You've finally had the lovely chance to meet our mysterious genius. A meeting, I believe, worth a lifetime.'

'I think Mrs Hudson has the perfect present for you, Mycroft,' Sherlock continued slapping his left palm with the riding crop.

'Oh! What for?'

'Come on! We are suave hosts, after all. We want our guests to feel the best when at our flat.'

'The tea is ready, boys,' Mrs Hudson entered the flat with a small tray with four cups of tea, and two plates with cake, 'Oh, hello, Mycroft!'

'How thoughtful of you! A cake!' Mycroft bitted his lips. He left his umbrella aside and sat on one of the armchairs near the fireplace, 'John! I believe you're quite interested in the reason of my call earlier today.'

'Well, if I say I am not, it'll be wrong. What was this all about?' I took out a chair and sat on it. Sherlock moved around the room, still waving around the riding crop in his hands.

'Quite possibly my little brother has an explanation...'

'I was _wrong_, was I? James Moriarty is dead, indeed. But he wasn't alone all the way through – he had this _Sebastian Moran_ to help him. And now Moran has taken up his place,' a pause and a slight nod from Mycroft, 'He came to you because he knew you were... _close_, let's say, with his comrade. And you finally gave up, telling him – or rather hinting him (but he is not that stupid, of course, not to understand immediately) – that I was alive.'

Mycroft nodded again, taking a sip of his tea and a bite of his cake. Sherlock looked out of the window.

'We know he is a newbie at St Thomas'. We know he's a graduate from Bart's and that he is a good doctor, with a fair reputation amongst his colleagues. We also know he has drugged my sister Harry – and, in fact, that's been going on for awhile. He killed Dr Jeremy Carr...'

'Professor Jeremy Carr,' Sherlock corrected me.

'He killed _Professor_ Jeremy Carr – this is the murder the media is talking about currently. Carr has been prescribing Harry's drugs for awhile, but refused to do it any longer. Carr was also a deputy chief of St Thomas'. Right now Mary is promoted to his position. Moran made her dopey, in order to take another person to prescribe Harry's drugs. And... he apparently knows her from somewhere.'

'Brilliant!' Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a fake smile, 'I did not expect you two to start co-operating immediately after Sherlock Holmes's resurrection.'

'Would you tell us your knowledge about him, or you prefer _us_ to acknowledge him by ourselves?' Sherlock didn't even bother to look at his brother – he continued glaring out of the window.

'I'm afraid I don't know as much as you want me to. The only thing I can add up to Dr Watson's monologue is that Sebastian Moran and Dr Mary Morstan have been fiancées. About three years ago – well, three years and seven months, to be precise.'

Silence.

'That... does make sense,' finally, Sherlock turned around, left the riding crop aside, and sat on the desk.

'Sherlock! It's so dusty there!' Mrs Hudson rushed towards him, but he made her a stopping gesture. She sighed.

'So... Dr Moran and Dr Morstan – what creativity in their surnames! – have been together for... let's say, some time. Then, quite possibly, _she_ is the one who dumped him. But he knows her quite well, as we've seen from the perfume and from basically everything he did in her office, John...' Sherlock started gesticulating nervously and I nodded, 'Right. They are still friends – that's obvious. And she still has some faith in him... No!' Sherlock clapped his hands, 'No! It was an arranged engagement. John, do you know Mary's father?'

'Met him just once. He is a retired general.'

'Any objections about your relationship with Mary?'

'It's not really a relationship...'

'Any _objections_?' Sherlock's persistent look made me just shake my head in a negative response, 'As I've thought. So, their engagement was not so long after all – Moran somehow knows Mary's father. Since he studied in Bart's, he has a qualification of...'

'An army doctor,' Mycroft hurried up adding, 'He is an army doctor. Just like Dr Watson here.'

'And Mary's father has been a lecturer in Bart's several times,' I added as well. Sherlock smirked.

'This is even easier than I've thought. So, they know each other from Bart's. The father introduced Sebastian to our Mary. As a rigorous figure, General Morstan insisted on a good marriage of his only – I believe – daughter. A perfectly good choice was the young but qualified Sebastian Moran.'

'But something is missing here, Sherlock. Why, on Earth, the engagement was called off, if Mary's father was so eager to marry her to Moran?'

'It's not missing, John,' Sherlock smirked once again, '_You see but you don't observe_,' he turned around and took the lipstick with his left hand and the riding crop with his right, 'Anything unusual here?'

'Except the extravagant choice of colour and attributes, nothing else.'

'Wrong. Look carefully and closely.'

I leaned forwards and grabbed the lipstick, as it was closer to me. Nothing extraordinary. Still the _Chanel_ cap, still the same dark colour. Nothing else. A quick glance at the riding crop didn't help either.

'Look at the cap, John.'

'It's a _Cha_-...'

No, it wasn't a _Chanel_ cap – it was an imitation. Right in the two intertwined '_CC_' there were the initials 'SM' engraved. I took the riding crop – 'SM' was engraved on its handle as well.

'SM. Sebastian Moran. But what's the connection with the lipstick and the riding crop?'

'I've already mentioned it, Dr Watson,' Mycroft smiled. Right – I've been out of practice. Both of them were trying to make me think. What a disappointment I am! No, no, wait – _it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me_.

'_The woman_!' I gasped and hurled the lipstick and the riding crop on the desk.

'Oh! The one with the disgraceful ringtone, right?' Mrs Hudson received three silent nods from us, 'She came here once, I remember. She was quite beautiful, Sherlock.'

Sherlock forced a smile, and then looked out the window again.

'No, it's so perfectly alright,' I made a sarcastic remark, 'Sherlock was dead – he isn't now. I am still unsure of whether Moriarty is alive or not. Now the dead Irene Adler is perfectly alive as well. _Who else is going to be the new Jesus Christ?_'

'Oh, I just hope my husband is well settled down there, six feet under the ground,' Mrs Hudson sighed.

'I can assure you he is, Mrs Hudson,' Mycroft nodded, 'Though, it's again up to my little brother, of course.'

'Where is she now?' silence. I raised up my voice, '_Sherlock_?'

'She should be in Paris. With a fake identity.'

'Oh, how romantic of you, Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson clapped her hands. Both Mycroft and I looked at her with an inquiring look.

'Okay. Let me summarise this – the engagement was dissolved because Sebastian Moran was already married?'

Mycroft nodded. Sherlock pouted, biting his lower lip.

'I appreciate your conclusions, but... what is this all about? I mean... why does he want to drug Harry? Why is he involved with Mary again, after their separation – and, especially, in such dangerous matters?'

'Jim Moriarty wanted to kill me, John. He almost succeeded, but just _almost_. Now Sebastian Moran is following his – if I may put it like this – master's steps.'

'He wants to kill you? This time – for sure?'

Mycroft stood up and took his umbrella. Sherlock remained silent and motionless next to the window. Mrs Hudson took a deep breath.

'No, Dr Watson. He wants to kill _both of you_. And he will do whatever it takes this time for the murder to be successful. But he will do it step by step. Because he likes the chase and the tension of the game just as much as my little brother here likes it.'

'Which side would you take now, Mycroft?' I saw Sherlock smiling, 'Or it is utterly useless to ask you such a question?'

'Let's not rush, Dr Watson. You'll see very soon. You'll see,' Mycroft winked at me, nodded silently first at Sherlock, then at Mrs Hudson, and walked out of the flat, twiddling his umbrella.


End file.
